More Than A Pod
by Jarreau
Summary: Jack Whittaker, a fresh recruit still at his Sergeants' teat. Follow him as he struggles to cope with the pressures a soldier must endure.
1. Chapter 1

"_To activate your Jump-Jets, simply press your tongue to the roof of your mo -"_

I jabbed my tongue into the receiver in my mouth, setting my Jets roaring, and ascended to the rooftop ahead of me. Snow crunched under my feet as I slid to a graceful stop, hands gently holding my carbine.

"_Very good," _the sultry voice added. "_Now, jump off the building and perform a brief Jump-Jet burst to land safely."_

I did a slight bunny-hop off the lip of the roof, touching my tongue to the device to set my Jets once more to rumbling, but not soon enough. I turned my fall into a roll at the last second, white powder swirling around me, but it wasn't enough to please the Sergeant.

A door whispered open a few meters to the right, accompanied by a blast of warm air and the silhouette of a hulking man. "What the fuck was that, Whittaker? You think this is some fucking acrobat show? The Council paid good money for those Jump-Jets, so use them!" The silhouette yelled, solidifying into a man. He was big, made still larger by the trench coat he wore, with a small round face almost buried beneath an ushanka.

"I am, sir. I was just half a second too late -" I tried to argue.

"That half second cost you four seconds on the ground, rolling in the dirt like a pig! Do you know how much buckshot a rebel shotgun can pump into you in four seconds?" He roared, the snow that was accumulating on his hat coming off in clouds as his head shook.

I was too aware, really. My first live drop was in four days, and those Rebs' wouldn't be shooting blanks. It made me queasy to think of the womb-like interior of that drop-pod, and what it entailed. But instead of arguing further, I brushed some snow off my visor and walked back to the track start.

_"To activate your Jump-Jets, simply press your tongue to the roof of your mouth."_

-:O:-

"Hey, heard you bungled that Jump-Jet track something awful, huh." Rogers put it in as he shoveled down his potatoes and gravy. He looked at me from across the table, looking up from his tray expectantly.

I sighed, looking around the Mess Hall, at my own cooling tray of potatoes, and finally back at him. "I didn't do so poorly, it's just that Sergeant's a hardass who won't let you make a single mistake."

"That bad, huh?" Rogers shoveled another spoonful of potato into his mouth, smiling. "You do know we have to use them on our drop Saturday, right?"

I pursed my lips, as this wasn't a topic I wanted to dwell on. "I don't see why he won't let me use a Nanite Overshield, at least then I won't get ripped to shreds in mid-air." I would feel much safer ensconced in a shimmering suit of nanites than I ever would on an open rooftop. It defied all the basics of cover. Anyone could see me and shoot me on a rooftop!

"I hear tell that the Council feels we have too many heavies on the ground. Too much ammo expended, and such. Shit's cheap, but not that cheap. They feel Jump-Jets are 'the key to a modern, efficient strike force'." He replied, wiping a missed chunk of potato from the corner of his mouth. "I have Rifle Drills in ten. Catch you later, flyboy."

With that, Rogers stood up and smoothed his pants, then grabbed his tray and walked away. I stared after him, my mind still stuck on that empty drop pod.

-:O:-

"Whattaya think of this Whittaker kid, Top? He seems bright enough."

"His aptitude tests are well in the norm, and his three-dee perception is excellent, but his jet control is lacking. He's decent enough, I suppose. What're you gonna do with him?"

"I was thinkin' the Third."

"Major, you can't do that; he's just a recruit! The Third's a specialized strike force! He'd only slow them down anyway."

"You may be right. Let's wait till his drop's done."

**A/N: That's it, the first (almost) chapter of **_**"More than a Pod" **_**Feel free to leave reviews with criticism, advice, and comments.**


	2. Chapter 2

"All right, numbnuts," The sergeant barked, pacing the smooth grey hallway. flanked by two long lines of privates. "Today - Today is your first drop." At that, there wasn't a head in the room without a bead of sweat trickling down it, except maybe the sergeant's smooth dome. "Don't fuck up."

Now that sure set the privates to worrying. They knew the Sarge was a man of few words, but everyone was hoping for some word of advice. This brief pseudo-threat of "don't fuck up" was less than everyone was expecting.

Murmurs washed over the room like the tide as the sergeant strolled back to the head of the corridor, his movements just as snappy as his uniform. Reaching his command position, he about-faced to look down the long lines of greenhorns under his command. "SQUAD! One step forwards, MARCH!" Every private extended their left leg, sliding into position beside one another. "Ready, FRONT!" Every cadet turned to face the Sarge. The sergeant performed one more about face, pivoting to stare down the long hall of the battleship, towards the ready-room. "Forward, MARCH!" With a rhythmic beat that would put clockwork to shame, the privates marched down the hall, their red and black boots _clomp_ing off the metallic floor.

-:O:-

So this was it, the death march. As I stomped along with the other cadets, I understood how the death-prisoners of Earth must feel, tramping down the hall to the surgeon's venomous needle. "_Dead man walking!_" The stomping of the boots seems to whisper. "_De-EAD man walking!_" I could feel sweat trickling down my back, then stop, halted by the pressure of the jump-jet upon my back. It was a familiar weight, the jetpack, but now brought to mind the gallows, the weight of it pulling my windbreaker up to form a noose about my neck.

The sergeant led us into a spacious, well-lit room, with triangular hatches on both sides of the room, a dozen, and a final one in the far back. In the middle of the room stood a long, low row of metal shelves, upon which rested a series of carbines, repeaters, and chainblades.

"Squad, halt!" The sergeant ordered. The cadets slid to a stop, their nervous eyes fluttering around the room. "Form two lines, grab your equipment, and stand by the hatches." Every soldier moved mechanically, their conscious thoughts overrun by panic, snatching up equipment and snapping it onto belts, then moving to stand stock-still at the right of hatchway.

"Alright," The sergeant muttered almost inaudibly, having picked up his light machine gun and nanite overshield - the lucky bastard - he walked to the end of the room, where it culminated in the final hatchway. "When we touch down," he shouted. "I want to see every man on his feet _immediately_. None of this kissing-the-ground bullshit. Understand?"

_ "Sir yes sir!" _Came the echoed reply, laced with the slight pitch-change of nervousness.

With a pointed look at me, the Sarge said "Now get in your pods."

That was it. That was the sentence that signed my death warrant. Though the room was full of the pneumatic _hiss _of pod doors, the only sound I heard was the beating of my own heart, pumping faster, as if trying to make up for the fact that it may soon stop. With my jaw quivering, I turned and pulled open the triangular door, its own pneumatics giving a _hiss_, like an Indarian canyon-snake, ready to strike.

Climbing in, I shut the door, eliciting another startled rush of air from the pneumatics, and climbed down into my seat. Pushing the straps closed around my torso, I looked at the small panel just to the right of my cheek, with a glowing blue circle spinning over a red-hued map, white letters depicting "West Highlands Checkpoint - Controlled by the New Conglomerate"

_"Oh boy"_ I thought, recalling what Sarge had said about buckshot.

**A/N: For story purposes, I will depict the continents as far larger than they are in-game, as well as completely remove respawning.**


End file.
